


he lives in a daydream (that nature dared to create)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Series: Bingo 2020 [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, First Meetings, Flower meanings, Gen, Nature, Pre-Relationship, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: Roger takes a walk to calm down and ends up experiencing something he doesn't know actually happening.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor
Series: Bingo 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863202
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19
Collections: Dork Lovers Server Challenges





	he lives in a daydream (that nature dared to create)

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh  
> This just kind of happpened.  
> Enjoy!

Roger is used to the thrumming anger in his veins. It burns like a shot of tequila. He does not know why it happens, but that it comes after constant needling, enough things go wrong, and he is exploding outward. People scatter out of his way and objects pay the price, and he hates it. Hates that dark anger inside of him.

Too much of his father in him, he might think, when he buries that anger down with shots of vodka because he cannot stand the taste of tequila.

He does not know why he listens to Freddie when he gently encourages him to go for a head-clearing walk in the woods. Walking never calms him down, it stirs up the energy. Builds up until its bigger and harsher than it was before. It traps his thoughts in his head, and he cannot escape it.

If he waits long enough, it simmers down, but the wait is hours, and something always comes along to set the fuse ablaze and the alcohol only makes it burn brighter.

Roger shoves a cigarette butt into his mouth as he walks down a forgotten path. It had been the furthest from where he parked his car, and he kept moving away from where he could hear or see people.

His anger dims when he steps foot on the path. It feels different. Older somehow. The trees look greener and he thinks that this might be one of the parts of the park that boasts hundreds of hundred-year-old trees. Survived Cromwell or something equally historic.

It is calm too. The trees rustle quietly in the breeze and he does not feel another person on this path. Cannot hear the others either – like the boys giggling about sneaking booze out from their father’s liquor cabinet or the couple snogging against the door of their car looking for a rush.

He presses on. Roger keeps his hands in his pockets, sticking the key through his closed finger. People have mistaken him enough as a girl for him to see the value in keeping that protection. As he walks, however, he finds his fist loosening and breathing in the sweet scent of honeysuckle.

There should not be any flowers this late into autumn, but he looks down and sees the tiny white buds crawling across the path in front of him. Strange yellow and pink flowers weave between them as well. Roger frowns looking behind him. The path he has already traveled is covered with the same scattering of flowers.

He probably had not noticed, and only now is smelling them when there are more of them. Roger looks up to the sky, squinting through the branches to gauge the weather. The rain was expected, but now it seems that sun streams through the branches.

How long had he been walking anyway? His cigarette had not been lit, and the butt is soggy. He pulls it from his mouth, thinking about flicking it into the trees, but something stops him, and he shoves it into his pocket.

Roger keeps walking, listening to the bird song that flutters through the air. He had not seen any picking at the crumbs in the parking lot, but with a buffet of bugs and bees that he is seeing now, he does not blame the birds for not settling for toast.

The sun grows intense and Roger lifts his arm in front of his face to ward off the brightness. He wants to know what could be causing such brightness, a pool maybe? One of those weird spots of never-melt snow – those might only be on glaciers he pauses, what had the discovery show said again?

Maybe he will find it again and watch it sober.

Roger stumbles through the streets, over a root and his arm flails ripping away from his face. He does not tumble over but he steps quickly to keep his balance. When he is steady on two feet, he looks around.

It is a clearing. Bright as the sun on a clear day, but as he looks up the growth of the trees should be blocking most of the sunlight. Long grass tickles against his jeans, and the longest still tickle against his palm. Bright orange flowers are swaying in the wind. Roger tilts his head; his hair is flat against his back and not being caught on the breeze.

There is a pond, too clear for being stagnant and in a public park that garbage would have been dumped in. Roger approaches it with gentle footsteps, nearly apologizing for disrupting the grass. He bites down on his tongue, confused as to why he would apologize to the _grass_ of all things.

Roger looks up when he hears a twig snap. There is a deer, a baby one judging by the spots of white, and friendly because she has a crown of clover draped across one ear. He looks away from the water, strangely he had been thinking about drinking it, but he had not thought the thought until he was distracted from it.

The fawn picks at some of the grass, chewing on it sedately. She blinks her eyes and steps a little closer, ripping a flower from its stem.

“Hello there pretty,” Roger reaches out his hand.

He feels the bristles soft fur of her head as she brushes against it before trotting off wobblily to another flower on the other side of the clearing. Roger smiles at the gentleness of the creature. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he turns around again, ignoring the pond at his feet.

On a branch over the water sits a man. At least Roger thinks he is a man, his lap is covered by a sensibly placed hand, but the jaw looks a little too strong. The chest and hair do not give him any sort of answer either. Roger blinks as he realizes the man, person?, is completely naked.

He follows one leg up, noting the braid of flowers around his, their, ankle and the scuffs of dirt climb up their entire body. It is a very long leg. Roger reaches the hand, which is also wrapped in a braid, this time entirely leaves, and then there are more cuffing their arms.

Finally, he reaches the person’s face to study. Wild dark curls frame bright green eyes and a sharp (sharp canines too, the dentist part of his brain supplies) smile. There is a string of aster, daisy, and leaves of fern that wraps around their head and weaves through the curls.

Exceptionally beautiful, Roger things, otherworldly. There must be a pattern on their back, he can see lines of green hug the tops of their shoulders.

The person tilts their head the other direction before dropping down to the ground. Roger lets out a panicked yelp, but the person drops into a crouch and when they stand, their hand is no longer covering themself, but brown linen pants are.

He frowns, wondering where the pants had come from.

“You’re wearing them,” the person says.

Roger flutters his eyelids at the soft-spoken lyrical voice. It is deep enough that Roger is more confident saying this is a man, but he does not know.

“I haven’t seen your kind before.”

“My kind?” Roger feels like he is under a microscope as the person walks around him, dipping in places and running their eyes over his body.

He tugs his jacket closer to his body.

“A lot don’t know to look,” the person says, “or don’t know how.”

“I wasn’t looking –” Roger turns around to point out the path, but the entrance is covered, and he stares at where he would have sworn, he entered from.

The person grins and leans forward, “that’s part of the problem.”

Roger turns back and stares at them, not understanding _what_ this person is talking about. He cannot help but notice the different shades of green and the flecks of brown. It looks like a garden in their eyes and he backs away with a flush, overwhelmed by the sweet honeysuckle scent.

“It’s dangerous to not look, but dangerous to look,” the person says, “but I’ve never seen one of you so close.”

“Right, er.”

The person picks up his hand and traces a line over his palm, it feels like the tickling grass did and Roger forms a fist, feeling bare in front of this person – who he starting to think might not be a human, or in fear of sounding like a colonizer, a human like him.

“You’ll have a happy life, and you have a big heartline,” the person sticks out their hand, “your palm almost matches mine!”

“I don’t… what does that mean?”

“A musician’s hands! Made to create the melodies on the winds! I love your kind’s music; it is so unafraid of offending the world.”

The person looks up at him, sharp green eyes, and a kind smile on their lips. They tilt their head and lean forward again.

“Don’t give me your real name, but what should I call you?”

“Is shortened okay?” Roger says his throat a little dry.

“Yes!”

“Rog,” he mumbles.

The person smiles again and bends down. Their lips touch his forehead and he feels himself sink into a pile of leaves. They cradle him like a soft bed, and he lets himself sleep in it.

Roger stares at the dashboard of his car. The late afternoon has shifted to night and there are only a scare number of cars in the parking lot. He shakes his head, trying to remember why he had fallen asleep against his car wheel or how he had been lucky enough no one called the police for a dead body.

There had been anger in him, he was taking Freddie’s advice to take a walk, but Roger narrows his eyes. Then shrugs. He does not want to think he would do something as reckless as drive drunk, but he knows he has a fifth of vodka hidden under his seat.

That must be what he had done. Roger stares out at the forest again, wondering at the strange feeling of wind blowing through his hair even though the windows are up, and the heat is off. The dream was pleasant, he thinks at least, and he is not mad.

Freddie will let him in the house now that his antiques are not in danger of meeting a tragic and early end. Roger reaches down and starts the engine, keeping his eyes to the trees. He should come and walk here more.

Perhaps tomorrow after they audition guitarists for the band. Roger is sure he is going to need a breather after a day like he is thinking it is going to be. He stares at his hand around the wheel and flexes them.

_A musician’s hands._ The words bounce around his head, warming each spot like a leaf in the sun. Roger pulls the gear down into reverse and gives the forest one last look and slowly the strangeness falls from his shoulders.

He slept in a parking lot, that is why he feels weird.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, leave your comments and thoughts below!
> 
> Also if anyone is curious, yes this Brian did show up to the auditions.


End file.
